


Caim

by deathwailart



Series: Eimhir Lavellan [6]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Intimacy, Schmoop, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 18:21:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2821757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathwailart/pseuds/deathwailart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A moment of calm, rare and to be treasured.  References <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2799725">Taking In Strays</a> but works as a stand-alone.</p>
<p>Caim: lit. "sanctuary"; an invisible circle of protection, drawn around the body with the hand, that reminds you that you are safe and loved, even in the darkest times.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caim

Sometimes it's like stepping into another world whenever he enters Eimhir's quarters, no matter how ridiculous that sounds and it's certainly not something he'd actually voice but the idea still stands. It's as if everything outside – the rifts and demons, the Red Templars, every other conflict – ceases to exist as soon as the door closes behind him. There's usually a fire going because she said there was always a fire at any Dalish camp at all times, the crackling of wood and the hissing and spitting of sap when the pine logs split comforting to her and well, she might as well benefit from his hard labour although he suspects she enjoys the show. He doesn't mind, not really, not when she bites her lip, glancing up from tending to the hart or the way she cocks her hip if he turns to find her leaning against the well, not when it usually means she'll let him crowd her against the wall of the stables, her hands tight at the front of his shirt or tangled in his hair. And like she does down at the stables, she sings or hums whenever she's in her quarters, either the songs from the tavern or those from her clan, her voice soft but sure and confident, higher and sweeter than he'd have thought at first. She still gets embarrassed when she catches him watching her fondly when she's singing but she'll keep going now instead of losing her voice entirely. He likes her singing in her own tongue best, even if he doesn't understand the words or perhaps because of it because then she'll tell him, her lips at his ear as she translates and tells him bits and pieces of her history. He's taught her a few songs too, some Marcher songs, bawdy tavern ditties that Maryden wouldn't utter and a few silly Orlesian things that he remembers, helping her to sound out the foreign words when she frowns and trips over them.  
  
But more than that, there are all the little touches that make it look less like the rest of Skyhold. She has her own private herb garden of sorts, little pots that dot surfaces, not all of them for tonics or potions and worse; cooking really, she likes having fresh herbs in her pack when they're out and sometimes he likes to run his fingers over the leaves, watering them if she's away without him. She's told him about her Vallaslin and how it's for Sylaise and he doesn't entirely understand it because he can't, he's human, he grew up with Andraste and the Maker but there's a look in her eyes whenever she talks about her clan and her beliefs, pride and love, determination and fondness and he loves that. There are books and papers that always clutter her desk and sometimes the couch, notes from everyone else about what she should look at, research that she does in her spare time. Varric's books are all kept neatly on a shelf except Swords and Shields, copies borrowed from Cassandra or perhaps Dorian that she sometimes dictates with a grin, always returned to Cassandra until she gets her hands on the next copy. She keeps a little journal too, not that he'd ever read it but she writes notes whenever she can, sometimes with her books and papers around but she takes it everywhere in her pocket, scribbling things down whenever there's a moment. More than once she's suddenly spun him around so she can use his back as a desk of sorts. There are ornaments of some description that she's picked up, some she's even made herself, Dalish by the looks of things. Lots of antlers too. Little carvings that she makes as well in her free time, rougher than his, just a thing to keep her hands busy and only done with a little knife but she's made space for him to work in here too so there's a block of wood by the balcony, a tentative beginning to something he hasn't quite decided on.  
  
And of course there's Scaea too, the pup no longer always sleeping at the foot of their bed but tucked into the alcove close by, her own little bed and toys because they both agree that a growing girl needs her own space. She's close enough to hear them, smell them, see them and she can't get up to trouble there and neither of them want her to sleep on her own, not when she's their hound. She fell asleep hours ago, after playing tug of war with him by the fire, content to run off when Eimhir presented her with a bone from the kitchen that a servant probably handed her because Scaea has won the hearts of everyone in Skyhold, likely by virtue of being the only pup running around and how tiny she was when she arrived, tucked into Eimhir's coat.  
  
Her humming draws him out of his thoughts and he looks up to see her in his shirt and nothing else, humming quietly to herself as she closes the curtains and he's sure she's glad to be back at Skyhold again. She might love camping more than the rest of them except Solas but the weather was miserable, there were corpses and bloody bandits and of course demons too and everyone started to lose patience with one another by the time they got back. Personally he's glad to be sleeping in a proper bed again because he's not ashamed to admit that he's getting older and that roughing it isn't great for weary bones and joints. Besides, he gets a better view here, watching her turn gracefully on the ball of her foot as she moves about the room, putting out candles but for those by the bed, checking the curtains and gathering up papers for the morning before she at last bounces onto the bed, a brush and comb in her hands, her skin still flushed pink from her bath. Sitting up, he moves so he can card through her hair with his fingers, careful with any tangles, taking the comb first as she leans back against him. She says nothing but she hums with approval when he switches to the brush until her hair gleams like copper in the light of the fire, moving it aside to kiss the nape of her neck and then along the exposed skin from where his shirt has fallen off her shoulder. She turns slightly, thumb on his chin and fingers curled beneath to kiss him slowly, no rush at all, Eimhir the one to nip at his bottom lip until he pulls back to breathe, sure he's smiling like an idiot. She runs her fingers through his hair – she brushed it earlier after he'd bathed, dug her fingers into his scalp too and massaged until she'd teased him about purring – and leans their foreheads together, allowing him to gather her in his lap for a moment. It's getting harder to find time just for this, just to hold one another especially now that she knows everything and they've talked through it, that time in the barn when she stayed with her pregnant hart and again when Scaea came into his life. Sometimes he thinks it must be a dream because how could she forgive him? How could he be given a second chance like this? He's learning not to question it because Eimhir tells him she loves him and takes his hands in hers on the days when it's hard and if she's away without him, he invariably finds notes scattered around, silly little things but she took the time to plant them in places she knew he would find them and they never fail to make him smile.  
  
She loves him and maybe it's just as simple as that.  
  
"You should get in bed," she tells him, at last breaking the silence as she leans over to set the brush and comb on her dresser, blowing out the candle. "You always complain if I get in first that you don't get any bed."  
  
"Someone as small as you and yet you sprawl out in the middle like a starfish and take up the whole damn thing," he replies, doing as he's told as she gives him a look of indignation.  
  
"I do not! I'm not even half your size!"  
  
"And yet you find a way."  
  
  
"You're lucky I'm not cold or I'd evict you from the warm spot."  
  
He laughs at that, shaking his head as he folds back the covers for her to join him. "I- Maker's balls!" Her cold toes find his legs but he never pulls away – if he wasn't so tired he'd sit up and chafe some warmth into them but she's already moving to stretch out, her head on his chest, one leg tossed over his hip and an arm around him. "See?"  
  
"If you have real complaints then I'm a greased nug." When he just holds her closer, one hand rubbing her back she tips her chin up enough so he can see her smirk. "Thought so." She stretches out more comfortably then, yawning quietly before she presses a kiss to the hollow of his throat and he smiles himself, his other hand cupping the back of her head. "I wish this could last forever," she mumbles when he thinks she's asleep and he guides her head up gently so her gaze meets his.  
  
"One day soon, I know that you'll be the one to bring us peace."  
  
She ducks her head the way she always does, but she doesn't frown or look upset, perhaps a little disbelieving but when so much depends on her, she's entitled to have her doubts, he just feels honoured to be trusted to see this side of her, privileged too. "Sometimes...sometimes I can't believe how much faith you have in me," she mumbles quietly and he sighs, rubbing her back soothingly.  
  
"Now you know how I feel but remember: I meant what I said back at Haven. I'll always mean it. We all believe in you, no matter what. You're never alone."  
  
"I know," she whispers, "I know."  
  
She's smiling again until she yawns and he shushes her, pulling the covers up as he blows out the candle at his side, listening as her breathing slows and she goes pliant in his arms, relaxed and content and sleeping soundly. If anyone's earned this moment of calm amidst the storm, it's her.


End file.
